“Lord Eynsham here to see you,” he said, and cast a significant glance at the drawing room. “I sent him to your painting room, miss.”
“Thank you.” Sending him a grateful smile, she picked up her skirts and fairly ran to the small room she had appropriated. As the butler had promised, Henry was already there, standing in the middle of the room, crisp and sharp in his navy coat. Before she could think too hard about what she was doing, she ran to him, throwing herself in his arms.
“Louisa,” he said, catching her. Then her face was pressed into his coat and he smelt like smoke and rain, the fine wool faintly damp.
“Did you walk here?”
“From my father’s house. It was no way at all.” He held her closer against him. “I came as soon as I heard. I’m so sorry, Louisa.”
“He was a good man.” She heard the catch in her voice, heard the way it broke around the sound, and pressed her face deeper into the comfort of his shoulder. “I wish you could have known him better.”
“So do I.”
“We are to be turned out.” She clung to him, needing his reassurance now, when no one else could offer any to her. “Papa’s brother had a son, and he has inherited everything.”
“Good God.”
She gave a snotty laugh, and he eased her back so he could see her face. “Are you all right?” he asked, the stern lines of his face softened into concern.
“My cousin is offering us an allowance. We aregrateful”—she sneered on the word—“to receive five hundred a year from his generosity.”
“A year?” Henry looked mildly shocked. “Truly?”
“His wife informed me that he is the most generous man alive. We must find somewhere else to live—somewhere in London that is within our paltry budget. I hardly know if it’s possible. We may have to rusticate.” Her smile trembled on her lips. “Mama will not want to agree, but I see no other option for us.”
“Then we’ll think of something,” he said, smoothing his thumbs over her cheeks. “Don’t cry, don’t cry.”
“I don’t mean to.” More tears tracked down her cheeks and onto the warm skin of his hands. “I just can’t help it.”
“I’m here,” he promised, and she let herself believe that he meant it. Perhaps he would even offer for her as a result of their plight. Though her mother was right about one thing: allying himself with her and her family now was a different beast from allying himself with her when her father was still alive and wealthy.
Her heart hurt. The ways of the world were cruel.
But Henry wasn’t looking at her as though he was weighing her worth against bars of gold. He was looking at her with patient concern and—yes, that was love.
The worst of her fears melted in the face of that look. Whatever they were to face, at least they would do so together.
Chapter Thirty
PRESENT DAY
April 1815
When Louisa rose the next morning, it was to two interesting pieces of intelligence. The first was a note from Mr Upperton to say that Knight had returned to London. That note also included a few key pieces of information: Arabella Knight had become Arabella Princely when she had married Anthony Princely, and she had left for the West Indies a little over six years ago. Approximately a year ago, her husband had perished from the hot climate and one of the diseases prevalent there. Arabella had as yet made no move to return home, though Mr Upperton could give no concrete reason for this. The most likely supposition was that she could not afford to.
He did not have her address, but he could inform her that she was currently residing in Barbados. That, decided Louisa, was enough to be getting along with.
The second was that Lord Eynsham had visited her late last night, and with a special package he had evidently intended to pass directly to her. The moment Avery had delivered it, she had known precisely what it was, and her nose stung as she knelt by the tube, breaking the seal that held it together and unrolling it with almost feverish haste.
There, staring out with timeless serenity, was a young lady with a paintbrush in her hand and her smiling eyes content. Her childish vision of happiness.
Domestic Bliss.
It looked different in her drawing room than it had in Knight’s, set beside the debauchery of her other. Despite everything, it remained as familiar to her as the shape and colour of her own eyes. The signature she had so carelessly put in the corner when she was young and in love and thought nothing could stand in her way.
And Henry had been the one to retrieve it.
The fool.
